


A Million Numbered Doors

by waltzmatildah



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Gun Violence, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character(s), POV Minor Character, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7187282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/pseuds/waltzmatildah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A season seven AU future fic where the stories of three different characters combine into one shocking turn of events. Most of this is told from Alex's point of view. But, there are significant moments told from the point of view of both Amber Karev, and the OFC, undercover police officer, Megan.</p>
<p>A fic-writing experiment inspired by a late night viewing of <i>21 Grams</i>. Blame the ambiguous non-linearity on Alejandro González Iñárritu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tilt my head back, slit my throat...

_take a bath in my blood, get to know me..._

***

The garish neon lights of The Strip blink and blur into the background as he leans his weight against the chipped wrought iron fence in front of him. The activity no less chaotic now, as the sun begins its heavy ascent into day-time, than it had been when he'd arrived at this spot some three hours earlier.

Where the elapsed time has evaporated to, he has no awareness.

A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. A thin stream of acrid smoke curls around his left ear, settles heavily on his lashes. An unbearable weight.

The almost fluorescent white of the cast on his right wrist is at odds with the filth etched into his denim jeans. Too many days past being in need of a wash to be fashionably worn in. He bounces the plaster against the iron paling. Relishes the agony that pulses through his elbow, spears him right between the eyes.

Uses the sensation to bring about a re-focusing of sorts. He has not come here to wallow. There are things that need to be done.

_Must_ be done before a return to Seattle can be given anything more than a fleeting thought.

_Lucy._

And; _I'm sorry._

Sub-vocalised. It will have to do for now.

A figure in his periphery nods out an innocuous greeting. Could be, _good morning_. Could be, _nice day for it._ Isn't actually either of those things. There's a worn backpack slung over his right shoulder. The baseball cap on his head appears new; touristy and cheap. Just the right amount of tacky.

_Fabulous Las Vegas._

Oh, the irony.

“You get it?” His voice sounds rough. The cigarettes and the almost complete lack of use combining readily to give it a much deeper tone. He almost doesn't recognise himself.

Almost prefers it that way.

The man nods again. Fast and sure and perhaps a little put out by the doubt that coats those three syllables. Justified really. He _had_ doubted the man's success. Doesn't bother pointing out that his reasoning was more to do with his own _shit outta luck existence_ than anything else.

“All of it?” Still dubious.

Another nod. He feels something that tastes a lot like _the end_ flood his mouth then. Coat his tongue and teeth with its heady tang.

He leans over the fence. Drops a folded newspaper heavily onto the park bench on the opposite side.

“It's all in there.”

He brings his plastered arm up to his mouth. Uses swollen fingers to clamp around the ashy cigarette. Draws back deeply until there's no where else for the cloudy air to go. Loathes the suffocating sensation almost as much as he craves it in the same stuttered exhale.

The man drags the baseball cap from his head and runs his fingers through the close cropped hair that is now exposed. A nervous twitch of sorts. “You sure about this?” 

It's his turn to nod. Slides his gaze, sand-paper rough, all the way to the left without bothering to turn his head. “I didn't hire you to care. If it's all there, then we're done.”

“You might not like what you see...”

A warning. Barely concealed. He laughs. Coughs thickly around the remnants of smoke in his lungs. 

“And wouldn't that make for a nice fucking change.” Bitter and unapologetic. He already thinks he knows what he'll find... Proof.

The man shrugs, a silent _suit yourself_ as he retrieves the discarded newspaper, slips the concealed envelope out from between the sports pages and peers briefly inside. Double checks the contents are as they should be.

The backpack he'd been toting slides to a gentle rest on the bench, falls into the spot the newspaper had been in only moments earlier. There's more than just a little hesitation in the movement, as though the man is still not entirely convinced handing it over is such a good idea. 

“Good luck, yeah?” A question, like he's not really sure luck is what he's looking for.

He nods back one final time. Accepts the words for what they are and nothing more. Watches with only a momentary pang as the man shuffles off, heads back in the direction he'd originated from not five minutes earlier.

He reaches over the low fence and loops his uninjured fingers through the backpack's straps. It's surprisingly heavy as he hauls it up, settles the weight onto his own shoulders. Barely notices the addition amid all the burden that already sits there.

He hears footsteps then, more deliberate than those of the myriad tourists that have filed passed, procession-like. Small hands snake around his mid-section. Pale arms that work their way under his sweat stale shirt. Warm against his chest as they wrap across his rib-cage. Hold all his shattered pieces into some semblance of order.

“Hey. Everything okay?” The soft words whispered in a smoky sigh that settles against the pulse point somewhere below his left ear. 

He closes his eyes then, the bright morning sun orange red through paper thin lids as he nods again. Feels the familiar movement become his default setting once more.

“What you doing out here?” Not suspicious he thinks. Genuinely curious. An interesting turn of events.

“Nothing.” He twists to face her then, forces a degree of nonchalance he absolutely does not feel, “Let's go...”

* * *

The baby kicks under her hand. It's painful in an oddly satisfying kind of way and she groans, rolls her eyes, grins. Murmurs non-sensical syllables under her breath and refuses to meet the gaze of the man staring out at her from the kitchen.

Wonders, distractedly, how the worst thing that has ever happen to her could also be the absolute very best...

* * *

The pit is filled to bursting with the results of tourist bus versus concrete balustrade. The boards have all been cleared of non-emergent surgeries and the operating staff having spent the last nine hours painstakingly piecing the wounded back together.

So far the casualty list stands at two. And really? It could have been a whole lot worse.

He slings off the latest pair of surgical gloves and delivers them with a secure shove into the hazardous waste bin to be destroyed. His left knee aches all the way to his back teeth as he washes his hands, scrubs off the stench of death and dying that gets harder and harder to remove as days become years.

He catches a glimpse of her rounding a corner at the end of the corridor. Drags his hands over his face in an attempt to scrub away at the exhaustion no doubt etched there as he makes his way in her direction.

Slides his hands over her eyes from behind and pulls her back against his chest, buries his face into the mess of blonde curls. Locks her there resolutely.

She giggles and the sound catches in his palms.

“Hey, you...”

“Hey, yourself.” 

She spins in his grip until they're face to face. Presses her nose against his chin as she leans into him, as wrecked perhaps as he.

“How long 'til you're done?”

“Ten minutes. You?”

“Give me half an hour and we're out of here.”

“Sweet.”

The sound of her rubber soled shoes echoes as she makes her way towards the elevator on their left. Stabs at the call button with the folder she has tucked to her chest before turning to grin at him suggestively.

Mouths back a silent _Twenty nine minutes..._ He lip-reads the over produced syllables easily, raises his eyebrows in response. 

Watches as she disappears into the void with a smile on her face that mirrors the one on his. Waits with baited breath for the other shoe to drop.

After all, it always does.

* * *

The sheet is pooled on the thread-bare carpet at the side of the double bed. Cheap motel quality. There's a woman asleep next to him. Naked. One arm dangles off the side and he contemplates reaching across to retrieve it.

Doesn't. Thinks _fuck it_ and reaches instead for the shallow glass of bourbon on the bedside table. 

It's barely 7am.

The over-head fan whirs monotonously above them. Struggles valiantly to shift air that is already stifling. A heady mix of heat and sweat. Sex and booze and cigarette smoke.

All his vices come once more to haunt him.

The bruising across her face reaches into her hair-line, disappears into the mess of dark brown that haloes the pillow beneath her head. It's more yellow and green than inky black and purple now. A stark reminder of the hours, the days that have passed.

His cell phone bursts to life in the pocket of his jeans that were discarded some time in the early hours. He rolls over and snags a finger through a belt loop. Retrieves the still ringing device and squints to decipher the caller identification.

_Meredith._

Contemplates cutting the call but can't quite bring himself to. Some habits die harder than others.

“Yeah?”

_“What the hell is going on?”_

And he doesn't have anywhere near the energy required for this conversation.

“Look, I can't-” Can't breathe. Can't think. Can't _talk_ to you right now. “Just, I'm sorry okay. Tell Lucy. Tell her-” Tell her anything. Anything is better than the truth. “Tell her I'm sorry.”

_“Alex-”_

Only this time he does end it. Snaps the phone shut decisively and slings it back in the direction of his jeans, still crumpled as they are on the filthy floor.

_Tell Lucy I'm sorry..._

* * *

The first he hears is that she's missing. Has been for seven months.

 _Seven fucking months_.

Though they've only just figured out this piece of information in the last couple of days. Are only just sharing it with _him_ now...

* * *

The listening device is uncomfortable. The background noise; music, conversation, laughter, buzzes around the constant messages she's fed from the surveillance van that sits in the emptied out alleyway behind the warehouse that is so much more than just a _warehouse_.

_“You in position yet, Charlie Four?”_

_“Charlie Four confirming, we are in position.”_

Most of the information isn't even for her. Nothing more than vague reassurance that things are, so far anyway, going to plan.

She pushes into the bathroom at the back of the make-shift dance floor, leans her weight against the stainless steel basin and blinks blearily back at her own reflection. Mascara barely clings to the tips of her lashes, any lip-gloss she'd applied in the hours leading up until now has long since disappeared.

She looks exactly like the junkie she's playing at.

And after all, practice does make perfect.

She drags the back of her hand under her nose. An automatic response that never really faded, despite the years that have ticked on by. Glances up just in time to notice a swollen belly round the corner before the rest of a young female body joins it.

Feels her heart sink to somewhere down around her ankles. Possibly even lower than that. Counts to ten with her breath firmly held and resolutely prays for silence.

Doesn't get it.

“Oh,” Tentative at first, before morphing into something resembling confidence. Assuredness. Like she's done this before. “Jackie, there you are! I've been looking all over...”

_Jackie._ The code-word.

“I got you a drink. Come find me on the dance-floor when you're done in here.”

Exactly to script.

_Fuck._

The young woman exits again. Takes her pronounced baby bump and her un-lit cigarette with her. She follows her reflection in the tarnished mirror. Loses her momentarily between water spots. She looks to be no more than eighteen or nineteen. Rough though. Like she's lived more than just this life. More than just this one shitty night.

Maybe even more than a whole God damn string of them.

_Fuck._

The bug in her ear bursts back to life. Resoundingly startles her out of the all-encompassing dismay that had threatened to descend. Forces her back into the bigger picture.

_“You set, Decker?”_

She sighs around her words as she tumbles out the confirmation her boss is seeking.

“Yeah, all set. Did you get the visual?”

A back-handed attempt at making sure they still want her to go ahead. 

_“Yeah, we got it. Doesn't matter. Make the drop. This ends tonight.”_

“Right, got it. Moving out now.”

She inhales, drags her hand under her nose once more. Shudders against the physical pain of longing for what she craves. Doesn't bother lying to herself for fifteen brief, blissful seconds.

The music has been kicked up a notch, lights bounce off the mirrored walls, make it difficult to determine which way is up and which is all the way back down. The dance floor is only sparsely occupied, she can see her target, weaving slightly just to the left of the centre. A disco light flashes across her face. Blue and green. Ghost-like. Blank facial expression at odds with the gentle dance she's started.

She looks dead in that moment, and the sudden chill that settles deep in her bones has nothing to do with the whirring air con that has kicked into over-drive.

Something is off.

She can sense her back-up over to one side. Nods surreptitiously in their direction and moves her way into the gyrating crowd. Feels the beat of the music melt into something resembling her own aching heart beat.

Fingers seal around her arm; looks friendly enough to the outside observer. Matching smile, a little lopsided but apparently genuine. Eyebrows raise, a silent question that doesn't need words. She nods back her response. Slides her fingers into the sweat sticky palm of the younger girl, spins her round slightly so that the cameras she knows are in place can capture the moment cleanly.

There's something in her expression that makes her want to stop. To pull her away from the lights and the noise and ask her what the _hell_ she thinks she's doing. Her free hand rests on the expanse of baby and belly that separates them. An unconscious action that sends nausea roiling through her insides.

_Jesus, this is fucked up..._

A door behind her bursts open then, and the thumping music fails to consume the sound of gunshots. Semi-automatic weapon fire. The spray of arterial blood flicks across her face. Not hers. Not _hers_ either. They're both still standing. Frozen in a mirrored tableau of one another. The girls eyes go wide in their sockets. Unadulterated fear as her mouth drops into a perfect O.

A fist connects with her cheek-bone then. Her world explodes into a bright white light and while the image of the young girl fades from view she knows without doubt it will remain seared into the underside of her eyelids.

* * *

The Las Vegas police call him long distance, tell him they've found her, tell him that they were probably too late all in the same run-on sentence.

_“We're very sorry to have to tell you this, Mister Karev...”_

He leaves within the hour. Makes his way to the airport in a blur of not enough sleep and too much unbridled terror. Drinks coffee that scalds the roof of his mouth and tries not to think about the fact that he'd never imagined his first trip to Vegas would be anything like this one is going to be.

* * *

Undercover, deep. Three quarters to losing herself completely into a world that is infinitely more familiar to her than the one she occupies now.

There is cocaine under her fingernails. She can _feel_ it there. Knows without even having to look. Itches to touch the tip of her tongue to her acid tangy skin. Creates viable excuses and explanations even as she knows she won't do it.

Not this time. Maybe not ever again.

The revelation is a physical agony that slides right through her. Top to toes. 

The low-level dealer, _Sanchez_ (and aren't they fucking all?), walks back into the room, a balding man in his fifties with too much money and not nearly enough class to spend it wisely. His suit is ill-fitting and reeks of stale sweat. He runs a stubby hand across her shoulders suggestively and it's all she can do not to shudder under his touch. Plasters a sly smile on her face instead.

“I hear there's gonna be a party...”

* * *

He chain smokes three cigarettes whilst standing in the centre of a car parking space designated for the disabled. Lights the next in the dying glow of the last and tries his best not to vomit in the gutter.

* * *

There is a tube jammed between her teeth. A machine forcibly pushes oxygen into her lungs. He takes all the equipment in like it's alien technology he's never laid eyes on before.

If they didn't have her name slotted into the metal grid above her bed he could almost convince himself it was all one devastating mix up.

Mistaken identity or some other load of _crap_.

She looks old. Older than he thinks she could ever really be. World weary in the worst kind of way. 

He's been given the short hand version of events. Figures he's remembered maybe half the details. Seems to get stuck on several of the more pertinent facts and can't quite map out a path that leads around them.

At least, not yet.

“Mister Karev?”

He startles. Not at all used to the salutation. Spins around on his heel wildly and only just manages not to crash to his knees in the process. An apology is lost in the blur of his movements and the jagged sawing of his breath through his teeth.

In and out. Out and in.

“Sorry? Excuse me?”

The nurse is small. Petite he guesses, to be polite. Bouncy pig tail still neatly held in place. Her eyes are wide and he can't help but wince as she flinches back from him slightly. Can only imagine what he must look like to her.

He forces a deep breath. Closes his eyes for a beat before re-opening them with what he hopes is the ghost of a genuine smile. “Sorry.”

She smiles back and nods her head and he figures he's done okay, all things considered.

“I was just letting you know that Dr. Cartman will be here in a minute to explain exactly what's going on. I mean, I know- they told me, the police, they mentioned you're a surgeon. You probably already know but, yeah. Dr. Cartman wanted me to make sure you knew she was coming up.”

He nods mechanically. Has already figured out the worst of it. Knows there will be no good news here. He retrieves her chart from the foot of her bed. Flicks through the pages on automatic pilot. Crunches the numbers and decodes the jargon and only just manages not to put his fist through the plasterboard wall.

* * *

She regains consciousness in the back of the surveillance van. It's already on the move. Heated debate rages around her and she keeps her eyes closed for longer than she probably needs to, clings to the notion of solace that the darkness holds.

Takes the extra time to catalogue her woes.

Her face feels like it's on fire. But if she keeps her breathing slow and shallow then her ribs don't protest the movement too viciously.

Resigned to facing whatever it is that comes next she lifts a hand to her cheek. It comes away sticky slick and the memories flood back.

“Megs?”

She struggles against hands that are pushing her back down. A desperate attempt to get upright. To get _out_.

“Megs, shhh, it's okay. Stay there. Seriously, Decker. We got you out. Didn't even blow your cover.”

She recognises the voice, her reluctant partner. Feels his fingers splayed out across her chest, keeping her in place.

“The girl? Jesus, Carlos, what happened to the girl?” She's breathless, panicked. Speaking has re-ignited the agony in her face. Ramped up the pounding in her chest.

“They took her. God, it went bad, Megs. The intel was bad from the start we think.”

“Where? They took her where? Are we on them?” The questions tumble out of her in quick succession. No time for answers before the next one hits the tip of her tongue.

“They got the jump on us. Took out Sanders from DEA before we had time to process what the fuck was going down.” His hands are working at a thread on the knee of this jeans. Almost like he doesn't know what else to do with them. “We got an id though, from the bathroom shots. Amber Karev. From Iowa originally. She's nineteen. Just.”

“Shit.”

“We don't know where she is but we're working on it. I'm so sorry.”

“Shit!” She scrunches her face up. Relishes the white flash of pain that the movement brings. Uses the sensation to steel her for what must come next.

* * *

There's a drug store pregnancy test tucked into the side pocket of her purse. She cuts a line of chalky powder from what little remains of her stash. Uses a maxed out credit card that was never hers to begin with to smooth it into a fine, white line.

Rolls a bank note into a perfect cylinder and snorts the lot in one go.

Vows to at least open the box and maybe even read the instructions tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

_Tomorrow._

* * *

He disconnects the call and retrieves his bag. Can feel his head still nodding dumbly to words that have iced the blood in his veins to frozen solid. Shoves back out of the resident's lounge and almost flattens Meredith in the process.

“Alex?”

He takes another step or several before the sound of her voice registers through the thick fog of memories and accusations and recriminations that are seconds, seconds, seconds from drowning him.

“Alex, are you...?” She trails off as he turns back to her. Isn't yet convinced he'll be able to form the words she seems to need.

“I-” He gags then. Dry heaves once as the hallway spins around them. Kaleidoscope bright. Her fingers circle his wrist. He twists away from her, closes his eyes against the hurt, the utter _confusion_ reflected back.

“My sister.” And even the very words themselves are foreign. Choking. “I have to go.”

* * *

“Where'd she get the junk?”

“Mister Karev-”

“I said, _where did she get the fucking junk_? Tell me who got her the drugs. I want-” The anger in his veins is palpable. He can _taste_ it at the back of his throat. “I want-”

The rest of the sentence dies on his lips. He wants a lot of things. The name of a scum-bag drug dealer is not necessarily one of them.

“Just... forget it.” 

He drags his hands down his face. Can feel the staccato thud of his pulse. His one constant companion it seems.

“Forget everything.”

* * *

She first sees him in the waiting area at the hospital. She's going against direct orders, both from her boss and from her partner, shouldn't even _be_ there. Needs to see for herself though that the girl they have is _the_ girl. That the protection detail is rigid despite the dismal prognosis.

There's a cup of coffee still full to almost over-flowing at his feet. His left leg bounces and his head is folded into in his hands, fingers kneading into the tissue at the back of his neck. There's a cast around his right arm. Looks new-ish. It's what grabs her attention to begin with.

He looks up, catches her gaze with his. Locks onto eyes that seem to scream all the things he could never say with her own reluctant stare.

And it's that moment she'll never forget.

But, for now, he's another nameless, faceless family member of another nameless, faceless patient. It won't be until later that the pieces fall resolutely into place.

And, by then, it will all be too little too late.

* * *

It's easier than it should be to get the information he needs. The Las Vegas back alleys and side streets full to over-flowing with people only too eager to make some quick cash.

He hears a name murmured around the place. A guy who _gets shit done_. Jamaican dude with a southern drawl. Can't miss him, apparently.

_Mick._

He wants whatever intel is available. Has heard rumours of a drug bust that went wrong a few days ago. She might have been there. She might not have been. 

There might be photos, he's been told. But the cops won't show them to him. Not yet anyway.

He can't wait for _not yet_. Whatever the fuck that even means.

* * *

Thirty three weeks they tell him.

_Thirty three weeks._

They'll keep her on life support for as long as they can. She's brain dead. Overdosed. It was too late. She arrested in the ER and they did everything they could but... _it was too late._

He knows the speech.

They've done the scans. The neurologist has made her call. There's no McDreamy here to work magic. Nothing more they can do but wait. Wait and pump her full of steroids. Speed things along an inch or two just in case.

Thirty three weeks.

And what then?

They don't ask him out loud but the question is inherent in every conversation they engage him in.

_And what then, and what then, and what then..._

He wakes up with his fist in his mouth. Stifles a scream into the cheap pillow beneath his head and reaches for his cell phone. Dials a number he's not considered calling in years. Disconnects hurriedly in a panic, lest she actually answer.

And oh, God, how much does he want her to answer.

He rolls off the mattress. Finds unsteady feet just in time. Stumbles back into jeans that needed washing days ago, leaves the chain in place and cracks the motel door to open. Peers out into the blinding night. Three am and not even close to dark. He needs coffee. And cigarettes. Hasn't smoked since he was sixteen and suddenly it's like he can't think about anything else.

Tucks his wallet into his back pocket and slides once again into shoes he hadn't bothered to unlace. Washes his face one handed with icy cold water straight from the tap and doesn't bother to dry off.

* * *

He pulls her hips up to meet him. Grinds heavily through the tight denim that still covers his crotch. Itches for it to be gone.

Doesn't think he's fucked a cop before. At least, not knowingly.

Her tongue pushes his teeth apart. Far enough but not too far. Forces its way into the back of his throat expertly.

She's done this before, the quick and dirty, and, of that, she is leaving him in no doubt. 

He shuts his eyes and pictures blonde curls in place of her mane of wavy dark brown. Shoves back at the knowledge that he's undoing every good thing to have happened to him recently and tries to convince himself it's all just a part of his plan.

Doesn't even get close to succeeding.

* * *

At first she refuses. Point blank.

The look she gets in reply is more than clear.

Eighteen months of ground work. _No_ is no longer an option. And maybe it never even was.

She shrugs, tells her boss, her partner, she's not doing anything until she's showered. The stench of the failed op is like grime on her skin. Clinging to the messy dark curls that fall across her shoulders.

She sits in the bottom of the shower at headquarters, chin on her knees. Lets the water pound against her back and neck. Feels the heat leach into the bruising on her face. Already more than iridescent. Tomorrow will not be fun. 

She's not sure how she's going to cover it all up to be honest. Wonders if she'll even bother trying.

The x-rays gave her the all clear. Ibuprofen for the inflammation, codeine for the pain. Ice packs when she gets the chance. 

She works her fingers through the knots in her hair, inhales the sickly sweet smell of shampoo until she gags. Tilts her head back and opens her eyes wide into the water, accepts what is next to come.

* * *

He can hear the traffic on the street below. An ever present hum.

The backpack he'd collected that morning is in the centre of the bed and he's eyeing it off cautiously. Knows without truly needing to think about it that there can be no turning back from here.

The inevitable end.

He stands abruptly, moves with deliberate strides across the room and pulls the bag towards him. Yanks down the zipper in the same vicious movement. Several envelopes spill out onto the un-made sheets. Bright yellow against a dull white background.

A piece of cloth is visible, chocolate brown and textured. Like a bath towel. He runs his fingers over the material reverently. Steels himself for what he'll find inside. 

It's been decades since he spun the barrel of a handgun. Felt the snap and jolt of it all settling firmly into place. Locked and loaded. This one is completely different, he notes briefly. Wraps his uninjured fingers around the trigger instinctively. The weight of the weapon, oddly familiar despite the obvious discrepancies.

And it turns out there are some things that you never forget, no matter how much time has elapsed.

He looks up, catches his reflection in the mirror across the room. Raises the gun left handed and with the barest hint of a tremor. Aims at his own face.

Blanks out the ever present images of Reed. And blood and brain matter and--

“Bang.” The word nothing more than a whisper. “You're dead.”


	2. Since this, I've changed some...

_different kind of fighter..._

***

There's a Portuguese restaurant not far from the main entrance to the hospital. The Seattle weather settles lightly on their shoulders as they hurry towards it, elbows linked.

She orders without even looking at the menu. Greets the young waitress by name and converses freely with words that sound Spanish but that he knows instinctively are not at all. 

He smiles at her over the lip of his bottle of _Sargres Preta_. Tilts it in her direction appreciatively.

“I told you you'd like it.”

He rolls his eyes, shrugs his shoulders as he brings the beer to his mouth. “What can I say? I'm easy to please.”

***

Her boyfriend ties her up using a pair of football socks. Waits until the weed has numbed her senses just enough and wrenches her hands high above her head.

She's crying but not because she's scared. 

These days it is only the unknown that terrifies her. And this? This is fast becoming a familiar routine. She shuts her eyes and lifts her hips. Knows that if she plays along it will all be over soon enough.

It's _never_ over soon enough...

In the aftermath he smooths his fingers over the tear-stains on her face, like maybe he's oblivious to his part in their existence. Cuts lines of coke for her like he's serving the family dinner and settles back against the couch to watch _CSI_.

She staggers to her bedroom, three quarters to high already and with one hand heavy on the wall. The only thing keeping her upright. 

She drags a folded photograph out from between the mattress and the box-spring; only just manages not to tear the long since faded memory to shreds. 

She'd been lifted onto her brother's shoulders, laughing. Wild hair a mess of unruly curls that rarely saw the calming bristles of a brush in those days. Skinny legs tucked through his wrestler arms as he held her securely in place. She never dreamed that he'd drop her. 

Never once entertained the notion.

***

Landing in Las Vegas does nothing to quell the quiet panic that is rising up in his throat. He bumps into things, people, can't seem to keep himself on a path that is mostly straight.

The cab ride from the airport to the University Medical Center where he's been told she was taken is an exercise in self restraint. He wants to scream; at the traffic that creeps along, bumper to bumper; at the driver who chats incessantly about only _God_ knows what; at the shrill ringing of his own blood in his ears. He cracks the passenger window slightly, loses himself instead in the hot air that rushes forth.

If the driver instructs him not to, then he doesn't hear it.

***

Her fingers are warm. He's got his own laced through them tightly.

That they still feel so alive fills him with a degree of hysteria that he's not entirely convinced he can contain. His heart is beating painfully in his chest. He can't even calculate how many days since he landed. Since he took off from Seattle at a run and jumped head first into self-destruction.

He can still feel the sand lodged beneath his nails. A phantom pain of sorts that hasn't faded any in the few short hours since Megan screamed at him to get the hell outta Dodge. He can't even remember dumping the gun. Just knows that he wiped it down with the towel it had been delivered in and now it's gone. 

Everything is gone.

He pillows his head on the new cast he's just received, his second in less than a week. Scratches the rough surface across his skin in an attempt to feel something, _anything_ , that isn't sheer helplessness. Grits his teeth defiantly around a scream that wants to split him in two.

“Alex?”

The soft call is instantly familiar. Drowns out the constant beeping of the foetal monitor and other machinery and settles somewhere low in his gut.

And he doesn't think he can lift his head. Doesn't think he can _breathe_. Twists instead so that his face is forward onto her mattress, his arms bent up over his head. Tearing at the hair at the nape of his neck. Scrabbling for some kind of desperate purchase.

He can hear sobbing. Guttural and raw. 

Grief at its most primitive.

Hands ghost against his shoulders, pull forcefully in an attempt to sit him upright. It's not until arms twist through his and circle around his heaving chest that he realises the sounds are coming from him.

“Oh, Alex.”

_Meredith._

She pulls him over and up against her. Solid and sure.

He let's her.

Has no energy left with which to put up a decent fight.

***

The car comes out of no where.

A lie.

_He_ comes out of no where. Steps from the police station and out into the Las Vegas traffic like it's not even there there and it's only when he's sliding across the hood of a maroon sedan that he registers the sound of horns blaring.

He's dumped unceremoniously on the asphalt with a bone jarring thud. Considers laying right where he falls and waiting for the on-coming vehicles to devour him whole. He keeps his eyes shut for a beat, catalogues the damage with a quick internal audit. Gives himself the all clear until a good samaritan latches onto his right arm in an attempt to haul him to his feet.

He screams then. Feels the bones move under his skin.

Only just has the self-awareness required to twist away as he vomits into the gutter. Uses his good hand to wipe the filth from his lips and chin and tries not to laugh at the fact that he'd kinda always figured this is where he'd end up.

The gutter.

He argues with the paramedics that are summoned by the gathering crowd. Eventually lets them usher him into the back of their bus and shove a Penthrox inhaler between his teeth.

He tells them it doesn't even hurt.

Another lie.

Everything does.

He gets a white plaster cast for his troubles. Wastes the best part of the rest of the day in and out of x-ray rooms and examination cubicles. Avoids reconstructive surgery by the skin of his teeth.

They discharge him with a sling and a prescription for pills he knows he won't bother to fill. Heads straight from Emergency to his sister's ward and sleeps in a chair by her bed for three hours. 

Dreams dreams filled with rain soaked skies and the dancing image of a little girl he once knew.

Loved.

Lost.

***

When her boyfriend tells her they're moving to Vegas she can't help the swell of something that tastes a little like hope that fills her insides to over-flowing. Conjures images of flashing lights and beautiful people and sun soaked days spent by crystal blue swimming pools.

Googles _Las Vegas area schools_ and dreams about one day sending her child to exotic sounding colleges like 'Wassall Academy' or 'The Meadows'.

Cooks them both celebratory steaks for supper and tries not to be too disappointed when he scowls at the potatoes and slams the lot into the trash.

_”What is this horseshit?”_

Closes her eyes and devours every morsel of her own serving as the front door ricochets to closed and then open again. Waits for the accompanying smash and shatter of glass that fails to eventuate.

Figures it's only a matter of time before the whole lot gives way.

***

A pimply faced junior officer hands him a plastic sack containing her personal effects. Those that were found on her at the time.

A wallet. A phone. A watch. Her clothing; maternity sized.

Tells him the coke was entered into evidence. Like maybe he was hoping he'd get that back too.

He doesn't punch the jerk in the face. But only just.

He waits until he's out of the station before separating the zip lock. Pulls her watch from the bag and stares blankly at the face as the hand ticks doggedly through the seconds, minutes, oblivious to the fact that it's owner doesn't really give a crap what the time is these days. He runs his fingers across the tarnished metal before sliding it into his pocket. He feels odd opening her wallet. Stops and starts several attempts before actually prising the flaps apart. Catches a folded photograph as it slides from where it had been stashed. Safe-keeping perhaps.

It's a sonogram snap. Feels like a sucker punch.

A baby girl. He's gonna have a niece.

There's no money tucked into the bill fold. It almost upsets him more than the sonogram print. Store cards in names that he doesn't recognise, a social security card in one that he does. Driver's license, borrowing card for the Iowa State Library. More photos pushed in behind clear windows.

Including one that takes his breath away.

She's on his shoulders. Scrawny and little kid-like. Eyes like saucers, a grin like a split watermelon. It's all he can do to look at the image.

It's all he can do to look away.

***

“Alex Karev.”

A file lands with a slap on the desk in front of her. Papers slide to skewed from between the manila cover.

“Pardon?” She squints at the precise writing across the top. Black felt tip pen. _Alexander Michael Karev_.

“The brother. His name is Alex. Arrived last night. Keep him close, Decker, yeah?”

“You mean, the brother is the new runner?” Carlos this time as he rounds her desk until they're shoulder to shoulder. Asks the exact question that had just reached the tip of her own tongue. 

“No. At least, we don't think so. But he must know something, right? It's your job to find out what that is. You've got twenty four hours and then I want you back here for an update.”

She nods, notes the in unison tilt of Carlos' chin. Slides her gaze to meet his and reads the unspoken _are you ready for this_ almost immediately.

Nods again, just for him. Opens the folder and drags the gathered pages free, gives them a quick skim.

“He's a _surgeon_? Are you _kidding_ me?” She looks up at her boss for the confirmation she doesn't really need.

“He's a surgeon with a juvenile record and a less than stellar family history. Don't let the cute butt and the fancy title fool you, Decker.”

Juvenile record? _Interesting._

“I haven't even seen his butt yet...”

***

She drags him, exhausted almost to the point of hysteria, from the room. Down several flights of deserted stairs and into the University Medical Center's version of the Seattle Grace tunnels. He runs his hand across his face and raises one eyebrow, questioning.

She shrugs back, “I don't know, I guess I figured all hospitals are the same to some degree.”

He nods. Knows from experience that she's right. The colours and the smells and the acrid taste of death. The names may change, very little else does.

“Are you okay?”

He laughs before he can stop himself. An involuntary expulsion of sound that bursts from somewhere low and fiery. Fingers brush deliberately against his, to grab his attention and nothing more.

“Alex?”

He groans. Picks his chin up high and lets the back of his head bounce against the plasterboard wall behind them.

“What are you even doing here, Mere?”

“Don't.” She spins so they're face to face, uses the tone of her voice to command his eye contact. “Don't do that. Don't act like you have no idea why I'm here. Why any of us would want to _be_ here.”

He blinks. Can feel white hot tears carve a straight line path to the knees of his jeans. Pretends not to notice because it's the lesser of all his current evils.

“What am I going to do?” Barely more than a whisper. “What am I going to do? Please tell me what to do. Please...”

She shifts where she's seated, inches forward until her knees are wrapped around his sides. Adds her arms into the mix and pulls him close. 

“Please tell me what to do...”

He lets her drag him downwards, still completely encircled by the tangle of her limbs, until they're side by side on the abandoned gurney. 

Sleeps then, deep and dreamless.

***

Las Vegas is hot. And noisy. The air conditioning in their apartment coughs and sputters ineffectually in the corner, fills the room with an incessant buzzing but does nothing to actual shift the air about. Leaving the windows open is not an option.

She moves her weight under the single sheet she has thrown over herself. Feels it stick, sweat slick, to her calves, to the inside of her thighs. 

Runs hands over the expanse of baby and belly and smiles.

Thinks things could definitely be worse.

Have been infinitely more-so in the past. 

Bides her time with baited breath and marks off the days until her due date with a pencil she finds abandoned in the back of the wardrobe. One scratched line into the wood for every time the sun rises again.

Lets herself think of Iowa only when it rains.

It never rains here.

***

She wakes him with coffee. Proper coffee purchased from somewhere other than a hospital cafeteria. He shifts with a wince, reawakens bumps and bruises that haven't quite yet faded to gone. Wraps his broken arm against his chest and pushes awkwardly to upright.

“Didn't know you left.” Voice still low and muffled with the after effects of sleep.

“I didn't.” She holds the coffee out in front of her, as though daring him not to take it.

“But,” he squints, mentally shakes everything back into place, “Where'd that come from?”

“I bought it for you.” 

_Lucy._

She's standing back, hidden in the shadows that fall sideways through the frosted glass behind her. Barely more than a silhouette.

When he looks around Meredith is gone. The styrofoam cup of coffee on the gurney beside his left knee the only evidence that she'd been there at all.

He wraps his fingers around it. Takes a moment to stall. To create believable lies to weave around all the devastating truths that he knows he'll never be able to bring himself to tell her.

***

In the immediate aftermath of the warehouse being shot to hell she can't seem to keep up with where they're taking her. Everything happens in a manner that is too fast and too disjointed for her to follow. She keeps her arms wrapped around her belly protectively and tries not to flinch at the blood spatter painted crudely across the willowy fabric of her dress.

She keeps asking about the lady cop, is three quarters to convinced its her insides that she's decorated with, but they won't answer her, keep packing plastic wrapped parcels of cocaine into duffels and garbage sacks and any other bag they can find.

There's a guy, Sanchez or Santos or something like that; he keeps looking at her sideways. Like he knows something that she doesn't. A greasy kind of grin slashed across the planes of his face. He's meant to be her baby daddy's cousin, but she's pretty sure Greg isn't Spanish.

Figures 'cousin' is code for something she'd rather not think too long and too hard about.

The staccato beat of automatic weapon fire blanks out bits and pieces of what goes on. Echoic memory and all that as someone shoves a mirror full of lined up hits her way.

She shakes her head. Feels the twist and kick of life under her skin as Cooper or Maddison or Tyler or Grace (she changes her mind almost weekly it seems), digs a tiny foot up under her ribs.

“Did it seem like I was asking you a question?”

She brings her eyes up under black mascara'd lashes. Wants nothing more than to hide behind them for eternity.

“No.” A hesitant whisper.

“Well...” 

The mirror is shoved towards her again then. Heaped lines shifting a little to the left in protest against the sudden movement.

She takes the rolled bill with a hand that shakes. Feels betrayed by her own useless body. Snorts the powder with a practiced ease and sits back on the couch to wait for a fake form of bliss to descend.

Murmurs apologies to her baby under her breath and shoves her fingers deep into her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

***

She hoists herself up onto the bar stool by her new target's right shoulder. Leans over the sodden runner and orders herself a shot of tequila and a bottle of something to chase it with. Fore-goes the lemon and the salt and downs the lot without taking a breath.

Tilts her head in the direction of the bartender and nods out her request for a replacement. 

“Make it two,” she adds, last minute.

Waits until they're lined up in front of her before using the back of her hand to slide one in the direction of her new target.

_Doctor Alexander Karev._

The cast on his right wrist throws her for a beat as she recognises him finally, the empty guy from the hospital waiting room with the eyes that held all his secrets.

“You look like you could use one,” she quips. Wraps her fingers around the second shot glass and tilts it slightly in his direction. She's read his file back to front seven times. 

It didn't really give her much to go on. Married, divorced, _Isobel Stevens_. A stint in juvie as a teenager. A dead-beat dad and a mother on more meds than the local pharmacy.

Nothing new there.

The surgeon thing still has her somewhat stumped.

They end up in the bathroom stalls. Pressed solid against a graffitied wall.

_For a good time call Aimee, 555-98-_ His head blanks out the rest of the number as her fingers work impatiently at the zipper of his jeans.

She's not entirely convinced this is what her boss meant by 'get close to him', but she figures it'll do for now.

Closes her eyes and dares herself not to think. 

Uses the sudden darkness to creates half truths and excuses that she'll feed to her expectant partner in a few hours time.

***

The photographs that he pulls from the yellow envelopes Mick provided tell him all he could ever need to know and then some.

His sister, _his sister_.

He presses his fingers into his eye sockets and takes a deep, jagged breath. Manages not to dry heave all over the thread-bare carpet, but only just.

Wonders if it's humanly possible to hate yourself any more than he hates himself right in this very instant.

There are shots of her alone, hands resting on the swell of her belly as disco lights illuminate the sway of her dress. Lips parted as he imagines her singing along with the pulsing music like she used to when she was just a kid jumping on her bed with her hairbrush, radio dialed up to window shaking loud.

Shots of her with the cop he's fucking for information; Megan Decker. Visibly flinches at the sight of them captured together. Feels dirty in a way that he can't quite reconcile.

Even more of her with a guy he doesn't recognise. He has his arm wrapped loosely around her shoulders in one. She's smiling, has her head tilted back by degrees. Looks almost like she might have been happy.

Once.

Shoves his knuckles into his mouth to muffle the screams he can no longer clamp down.

Drops the shots back onto the bed, watches idly as they bounce and slide off the handgun still nestled in the twisted sheet by his left knee.

Counts to ten inside his hollowed out head, racks up the few choices he thinks he has and picks one from the queue. Vows to see it out to the very end.

***

She'd naively hoped that leaving Iowa behind would be more than just a symbolic shift. That she'd be able to build a new life for them in Vegas. Set up a home and eagerly await the completion of a family she'd hungrily craved since the one she was born into fell apart slowly but surely.

They're in the new city three days before the back of his hand leaves a scratch under her left eye. It's on the fifth that she makes her first drop. 

A mixed bag of pills and powder that she exchanges for a fat wad of cash.

He smiles at her when she walks back through the door. Runs his fingers softly over the faded bruising and whispers _good girl_ , hot and breathy, against a spot just south of her left ear.

And she thinks maybe this won't be so bad after all.

***

He tucks the gun into the waistband of his jeans. Pulls his shirt out over the bulge before dragging a jacket over his bulky cast. Hesitates as the thick plaster gets caught in the sleeve. Makes a decision then, forces himself to stop for a second. To stop and think.

Buys a file from the hardware store a block away and sets to hacking at the protective shell on his wrist. It takes too long and it hurts too fucking much but he does it anyway.

Smokes a cigarette or several in a misguided attempt to quell the tremors that twitch involuntarily at his limbs.

Hires a car with cash and carefully folds out the papers Mick had supplied him with on the passenger seat. Names and addresses and photographs to fill in any remaining gaps.

Greg Sheridan.

Top of his list.

Drags his cell phone from his pocket and dials the lady cop. Fills her in on his plan by way of a giant _fuck you, too_. Knows he used her every bit as much as she used him but can't quite manage to reconcile the karmic balancing act they'd been in.

***

He knows even less about the mess his sister was tied up in than she does. And she doesn't need to sleep with him to figure that much out.

Doesn't stop her from doing it anyway.

More than once.

She finds scraps of paper in the back pocket of his jeans. Waits until he's sleeping to slide out from underneath his dead weight and piece them together into some semblance of order. Phone numbers and lists of questions that he wants answers too. Doesn't appear that he's managed to find any of them just yet.

Flinches as he shifts in his sleep. Restless even now.

She crawls back in beside him and tucks her chin down against where the plaster cast meets his elbow. 

Waits for sleep that never quite manages to claim her.

***

He's waving the weapon maniacally. Can't seem to keep the fucking thing steady as the weight of it builds and builds. Voices scream at him, a different one from every side, all morphing together until he can no longer pick one from the other.

“Alex.” Pleading. _Pleading_. The sound tears at defenses that have already been torn to rack and ruin. “Alex, put the gun down.”

He shakes his head. Defiant. 

Vows to at least get this part right. Even if the rest of his life has been one pathetic failure after another. 

“No.” 

The prick that impregnated his sister is on his knees in the desert sand. Has his hands behind his head as ordered but won't shut the fuck up no matter how many times he threatens to blow his brains out, a constant bellowing that echoes off the surrounding rock formations, bounces around inside his chest. Fills him to full and overflowing with words and syllables that he can't quite manage to decipher.

“ _No!_ ” Screams this time. Flicks the gun to high above his head and pulls the trigger once. Barely even registers the sharp snap of the weapon's recoil as it slams a path along his broken bones. Buries itself somewhere in the back of his skull. 

A reverberating shatter that splits the night sky into perfect halves.

“Alex, stop. You don't want to do this.” She's off to the side, and he laughs then because, honestly, this is the only thing in the whole world at the moment that he really _does_ want to do.

“Shut up.”

“No. No I won't. This isn't going to bring her back. Alex, killing him won't bring her back.”

Like he doesn't already know this. Crystal cut clear. 

“And the baby is going to need you, Alex. How can you take care of her if you kill him? There's no coming back from that.”

“ _Shut up_. Shut up, shut up,” Let's his eyes fall to closed for a second or several. “Shutup, shutup, shutupshutupshutup...”

There's movement then. He hears a rustling in the sand before the crack of a gun that isn't his shocks him to still in a heart beat. He waits for agony. Feels his chest explode in anticipation of what must surely be to come.

Is almost disappointed when it doesn't.

The father of his unborn niece is slumped to sideways in sand that slowly shifts to red and black as the seconds tick by. He's steps closer than he was, must have made his move when eyes were shut tight and minds were elsewhere.

“It was supposed to be me,” whispered. “I was supposed to kill him. It was supposed to be me...”

Fingers wrap around his broken arm, twist ever so slightly. He crumples then. Curls into himself in the sand and can't even begin to imagine what pushing up to standing will feel like.

He hears the click and slide of his gun being disarmed. Hates himself for giving it all up so easily in the end.

***

“I was going to kill him.”

He's not sure why he lets the words out. Maybe hopes they'll shock her into a scrambling retreat. Have her taking off back to Seattle in a heart beat. She takes several steps towards him instead and he feels all his insides shift.

“It's okay.” It's not. It's not even close. 

“I was going to _kill_ him.” Again. A mantra that he can't quite let go of.

“I know.” He nods dumbly at her revelation, even though he knows it can't possibly be the truth.

Hands settle softly against his face then, one on either side as his jaw is tilted up by fractions. He blinks and the smudge of her blonde hair and blue eyes disappears out behind a wall of salt water. He feels her thumbs swipe identical paths across his cheek bones.

Can't even bring himself to care that he's crying in front of her.

“Alex, it's okay. We'll figure this out, okay?” He doesn't believe her. Wants to so desperately but just can't. Not yet.

He nods anyway. Figures it's the least he can give her, all things considered.

***

She's out of her car before it's even come to a complete stop. Skidding through the loose desert sand as her boots can't quite get the traction they need to keep her upright and running.

She hasn't called it in yet, there is no back-up on the way. She's still clinging to some misguided notion that she'll be able to talk him down off the ledge he seems so determined to walk.

The voicemail message that he'd left her, disjointed as it was, made his position more than clear. 

The boyfriend is crouched over, hands and knees in the sand. There's a cut above his left eye which wasn't there this morning according to the latest round of surveillance photos and she wonders then whether she's not already too late to fix things. Whether he's not already too far off the deep end to be brought back.

Shadows creep their way across the wild planes of his face. Shield his eyes in a darkness that is impenetrable. The neon city lights the sky behind him with with an iridescent glow. She can see the barrel of a handgun as he shuffles on the spot.

The cast is gone. She figures he's managed to remove it himself somehow. Guesses then that the adrenaline flooding his system must be set to overflowing. 

Curses the chemical for the extra degrees of difficulty it will surely add.

“Alex, put the gun down.” Doesn't for a second expect him to listen to her.

He's screaming then. Nonsensical words that scurry around in the sand at his feet. Drowned out as they are by the sound of his gun discharging high into the sky above their heads. She begs then, uses the only possible weapon she has left in her bag of not so effective tricks.

“And the baby is going to need you, Alex. How can you take care of her if you kill him? There's no coming back from that.”

He stills. Tilts his head back. Raw and wild. Eyes closed. He doesn't notice the scum bag boyfriend make a move. Charge to upright and surging forward in a staggering split second.

Her own gun fires then. Instinct, nothing more, as the slug buries itself deep into his rib-cage. A clean shot. They always did say she was at her best when under pressure.

She's at the fallen body before she registers her own feet are moving. Has her fingers pressed to his absent pulse point. Keeps her eyes up and across to the left.

“You need to go.” Doesn't allow herself to be taken in by the sheer weight of devastation that seems to be suffocating him.

_“I was supposed to kill him. It was supposed to be me...”_

“Alex, I swear to God. You need to get the hell out of here now. I need to call this in. I need to call it in now. But you need to go. Go to the hospital. Don't... just- Just go.” She's stumbling over the words. Can't seem to get them out in an order that makes sense. Fumbles for her cell phone as his ragged gaze lifts to hers. Taps out her partner's number as he pushes to his feet, nods at her once, staggers on unsteady legs to his car.

***

“Where's Lucy?”

He's back in his sister's room. Night-time is closing in, one more day to tick off, one more calendar page to turn.

“Getting some food.” His voice sounds like it's coming at him from somewhere far away. Has to seep through layers of cotton wool and concrete before he can register it as anything real.

“Okay, good.” She settles in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. Examines him closely and he shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny. Can't quite predict what it is that comes next.

“I swear to God, Alex Karev, if you ever, _ever_ do _anything_ even _remotely_ like taking off without telling me again...” She trails off, as though waiting for him to drag his eyes up to meet hers. He does, reluctantly. Nods.

Gets the message loud and clear.

“You scared the crap out of her, you know that?”

He shrugs because he doesn't, not really. The monotonous beeping of the machines that pump artificial life into his sister pulses through his veins. Makes the room move in slow, lazy spins.

He reaches out and threads his fingers through hers in a desperate attempt to bring it all to some kind of standstill. He thinks she tightens her grip at his touch.

Knows it's all in his imagination but clings to the heady notion nonetheless.

“We're all in this together, Alex. Okay? You, me, Lucy, Cristina... all of us.” He closes his eyes against her words, terrified to let himself believe they might contain some degree of truth. “I mean it, you're not alone.”

Vows then that he can do this. That he can be an uncle and a big brother and a thousand other things he can't quite yet bring himself to name.


End file.
